Kirika's Acknowledgement
by Aizawa Minami
Summary: In most ways, Kirika does not want to admit anything about how she met and came to feel affection for a man named Milosz Havel whom he became an important milestone in her influential life. Based around episode 13, A Season of Hell. Implied Hermaphroditic Kirika/Milosz


Kirika's Acknowledgement

I met a male painter on a Sunday afternoon at the main riverbank of France's Seine. When we came face-to-face, there was no quarrel in the situation, rather, of who is going to say what to one another. I took the initiative by looking at him and to his painting.

His skill in painting the scenery I thought of seemed in gorgeous detail – of the blue sky, the trees, the grass, the river and its boats, as well as the people. I smiled slightly of his work and complimented him genuinely, "You paint very well." When this man caught on to these small words of praise, his mouth curved into a small smile, similar to mine as to being shy but more different as to being painfully aware. He never thought that anyone would approach him as I did.

While smiling, he spoke to me in a hushed voice, "Cut it out, kiddo." I know he is trying to dissuade me so he could concentrate on his work, but I replied on his behalf, "The painting's very beautiful; I would like to see you paint more often." The man chuckled lightly between his lips and smiled, this time with confidence. "That is nice to hear. If you are not busy you can see me again in a few hours; is three o'clock good for you?" I have brightened to the idea of establishing companionship with him, so I agreed warmly. "Yes; that would be a great time for me." And so, I bought a sketchbook and a small case of watercolour paints… we've painted shortly after two fifty-three until the early evening – he helped me up when I struggled to regain my balance after sitting down for so long and my cheeks warmed to his touch. He's kind, patient, and helpful when it comes to art; the laid-back manner of his words assured me that he is not impudent and harsh as I thought most men would be.

During the period of two weeks, the male painter and I spent painting and asking of how our days went. When we replied on the satisfactory level, we went back to painting again and shared compliments of our progressing artwork, and then when it is early evening, we would take our usual stroll to the art shop and depart to our homes. The process repeats itself and since I have met him on that one Sunday noon, I felt happier and confident within myself but I never came to tell my roommate, Mireille of this matter yet, for the issue of the matter is private to me.

On the fourth weekday of the third week of me and the painter's rendezvous at Seine, in the early noon I had quickly dressed myself in the same attire of a light-blue tank top, dark Capri's, and the white jacket. I bolted at the door with the knapsack of supplies on my shoulder and did not bother to hear Mireille calling for me to eat lunch before I headed out. I became far too excited to care; all I wanted was to see the painter again.

By the time the sun sets, both the painter and I walked to where the art shop is located, spoke our wistful goodbyes to one another, and hoped to see each other again the next day. I have walked back to the apartment and opened the door to Mireille's flat. When I went inside, I could see that dinner was already prepared – French onion soup, cheese, and bread.

The room was uneasily quiet as we ate our meal, as far as I can tell I could hear the light 'tnk' of her spoon hitting the bottom of her bowl – as I realized, I shouldn't have declined our usual lunch together in the mid-noon earlier.

Mireille asks me if I saw him often; I stopped eating my soup and a wad of saliva builds at my throat, "What?" I choked out. She doesn't stop at that and presses at the matter, "The man you were painting with..." She opens her eyes and reveals the harsh shade of blue that would put me to shame – distrustful and furious. "What's his name?" She asks again, her words penetrating at my esteem – I told her that I haven't caught his name yet. She sips her tea and discloses her final answer, "I see. Well, I think it is best if you do not see him anymore." I stopped feasting altogether and allowed those demeaning, harsh words sink into my fragile mind, but should I let her do this to me?

I swallowed every bit of my building saliva in my throat and calmly excused myself to the bathroom, which is the only room that provides a sense of privacy and security. While inside the room, I slumped onto the tile floor of the bathroom but did not have the nerve to cry for that crying for my own desires is considered vain – so I took a bath instead and allowed the water to calm me down.

Later that night, I thought the situation over and when my thoughts recollected, I made a clear decision; that I am still going to see him no matter what. Therefore, I had gotten up earlier than Mireille did; quietly donning my usual attire, the socks served their purpose in silent steps; I snuck into the kitchen to pour a glass of milk to drink and an apple to eat. Then, I slung my knapsack over my shoulder and slipped on my shoes. Soon enough, I left the apartment without any second thoughts of doubt – or so I thought that was the case.

I had learned that the painter's name is Milosz Havel from a medal that slipped out of his trench-coat when I came to pick it off the grass. He told me that he won the medal from Guiana. Then, he asked me what my name was now that he said his. At first, I had no idea of how I should say my name to him – as my name is a phrase that I am not fully accustomed to, nor do I feel it is biologically myself as to being a hermaphroditic individual. Therefore, I said nothing, as saying nothing seemed a better option; that if I told him the truth, he might leave me and I do not want that.

Like a gentleman he is, he kindly assures me that there are many things that people do not want to talk about. Then, he opens up to me of his own past; he is Czechoslovakian but is unsure of what his national identity is, now that the country itself broke into the Czech Republic and Slovakia. He says that the war in his country cost the lives of the people he knew, in which he thought then if he joined the war itself; it would bring some good if it were meant to change the lives of others who were suffering. He trails off on his words and looks to me, his smile mournful, "I am very sorry..." He said softly, "Perhaps I cannot expect a young girl like you to understand how my world is like..."

In the sense of killing others for the greater good of the world rather than murdering an entire race of a specific group, it is something that I cannot understand thoroughly for that my experience is the complete reversal – as to killing the male gender for the greater good of the entire world.

And yet, I admire his theory more than what has been implanted in my mind: it is a selfless, humane action for a man of his nature to do.

I replied to him with the similar tone of voice, "Perhaps I do not understand of how your life was like all those years ago, but I do appreciate you telling me your story, Milosz." As my words were enough to make him feel happy, the warmth in his light-blue eyes appeared, "Do you want to go about town for a while?" I nodded briefly, "Yes... I would like that..." As his charming personality causes my new sense of self to blossom in full, I had decided to tell him my name, on his account. "My name is Kirika, by the way."

"I see there," He says warmly, bringing my hand to his lips. "It sounds like a lovely name." My smile of tenderness plasters to my face and I agreed involuntarily.

_It could be..._ I thought to myself as we spent the usual time about the town instead of painting; we looked at the local outdoor markets where there is jewelry, flowers, and antiques being sold. He picked off a blue-coloured rose, which I grew fond of and he placed it on the side of my hair.

We spent our little date of admiring artwork made by others and ate some dessert as a conclusion to the occasion. While we started back to the block, holding hands, Milosz mentioned something called a 'beautifully painted tile with two happy elderly men' that he wanted for quite a while since he have been in this country for nearly eighteen years. But he never had a chance to buy it due to limited copies of the medium. I took some consideration on the matter.

I know that Mireille is going to be angry with me for not listening of what she told me to do last night, but what are her reasons for me to not see him? Can't Mireille see that Milosz is the one person that made me feel happy all these weeks? _"Maybe to protect you from something awful..."_

We met at Seine as usual, where we both sat down and gazed at the scenery, but I noticed Milosz wasn't painting much, it worried me. I caught him smiling at me for quite a while now, like the one yesterday noon – his mourning smile. Milosz told me that he is joining up again… He says that he had tried his hardest finding work here, but couldn't find anything else he is good at besides his paintings. He said, "That is something I should've known from the start…" Shooting people and getting medals of honour for his bravery is something that he is good at, even when he does not intend for the outcome to work like the one he wanted, as to helping and saving peoples' humanity from the war.

He knows that I am saddened to hear this, so he tells me that my painting is coming along quite nicely; that it is bold and tasteful, even if it is clumsy. In response, I smiled at him and thanked him for his gratitude. Then, we made our usual walk back home at the end of the day. By the time we reached the art shop; he tells me this is where we say goodbye… But I never wanted to say goodbye… My heart would be broken if it ever came to it. I remembered what he wanted in his eighteen years here; 'a beautifully painted tile with two happy elderly men' I knew now what it meant and how it looked important to him; the symbolism of companionship, of happiness between two people.

Thus, I bought the piece in a little brown bag and sped down to the street to catch up to him, when I found him by a near distance I was at a euphoric stage of bliss. I rushed towards him, calling out his name; he smiled as I done so. But the smile faded into fearful paranoia; the hairs stood from the nape of my neck as I turned around, to face a man in a car raising a machine gun at my direction…

The sound of bullets rung in the air, penetrating in sight; I moved away from harm and withdrew a weapon, but had no chance of shooting at the car as it quickly drove away. I held Milosz's wounded form lying on the ground, his agonized face as he saw that I carried a gun with me… I felt scared and very ashamed... He holds my hand that carries it, and he reassures me that it is going to be okay. However, I know that it would not be so, as the blood sputters from his mouth. I whispered my final thoughts as I cradled him in my arms, I shook and cried, as he means so much to me in the past three weeks that I have met him; that I came to love him very much…

Moments after his death, I drowned all the supplies that carried memories, but I knew it would not help anything… I also avenged his death by killing that man once I founded him in his corrupted hideout, but that did not help either. For that, I became empty and introverted once more: unaware of what my gender identity would become and who would make me feel whole again as Milosz had.


End file.
